The Dachsund

A bolt of lightning.
Carol and I were on the phone last night talking to Keith, recently returned from a vacation in San Antonio. My sons live better than I do. Keith has been to Mexico twice and now San Antonio. Last year Craig spent some time in Key West. I love it. I want them to be happy, I want them to enjoy life.
But of course being the material guy that I am, I still hold out hope for the day when I can call them both up and say "Set aside the month of May - we are all spending the month at the family compound in Hawaii."
I was digging his voice and his description of a cool vacation (although the trip home was hell). I was digging being a Dad. I was digging with pure wonder Keith being my son, which is a constant.
I was on the phone in my bedroom and my eyes were drawn to The Dachsund on the armoir. It was my father's. Electricity.
The Dachsund is a porcelain dog my father kept on top of his dresser. It has a hole in it's back where he stored his tie clips and an upturned tail he hung his watches over. The tie clips are the ones that clipped across the tie, not tie tacs.  I always preferred the pin; the older style moved around and was not as effective.
The Dachsund still has a bunch of my father's tie clips in it and two of his watches hanging on the tail. My father died in 1999; the dog has been in my home ever since. 13 years. Sometimes I notice it, most of the time I don't.
Last night I was staring at it during the conversation and I was getting chills. It was like a direct connection from grandfather through son to grandson.
And my emotions were all over the place. I was not close to my Dad. Truthfully I was not close to either of my parents. Without getting too heavy, I never felt accepted by them.
Yet I keep The Dachsund on my armoir and always will. The father/son thing is heavy and always complicated. Obviously I have feelings for my Dad, and the dog sparked them to the surface. I dusted The Dachsund off this morning and it is sitting in front of me as I write this. Looking at me with droopy ears and sad eyes. Somewhat disquieting.
Hearing my son's voice last night while I was staring at the dog was mind blowing. The confused feelings I had/have for my father crashing up against the powerful love I have for my son. And of course the inevitable thought that someday my son will keep something of mine to remember me by.
At some point and, maybe unbeknownst to me, possibly forever, my father must have had that Dad love thing going on. That Dad pride.
At some point I stopped feeling it. And that could be attributed as much to my own twisted perceptions as to an actual love loss. Impossible to know. It is indeed a tangled web we weave.
I just went through The Dachsund to check for surprises. There was a small plastic box amidst the tie clips. There was a pin in it, I opened it up and took a look at it. It was a Sons of Italy pin with the word Member across the bottom. It looks brand new, shiny and unscratched.
The Sons of Italy was an important organization to my parents. Both full blooded Italians, they were proud of their heritage. The Sons held dinners and all sorts of social activities and my parents enjoyed them. Had many friends as members. And yes there were times at dinner parties in my house when you would swear you were watching an episode of The Sopranos.
I'm sure this pin meant a lot to my father. If he ever wore it I know without a doubt it was worn with pride.
This morning I held in my hands two watches that were once on my father's wrist. I handled tie clips that once helped him to look cool. I inspected a pin that represents the fierce pride he felt for his heritage.
I have in the cupboard downstairs the American flag that draped his coffin.
When I got to the funeral home after he died, I demanded to see my father's body. The funeral director refused because my father had not yet been embalmed. I did not back down because I did not want to remember my father as a wax dummy. They took me out to where he was lying, unzipped the bag and stepped away. I looked at him for a minute, then bent over and kissed his cheek. His face was unshaven and scratchy. That is a memory I cherish.
Regardless of our history together, these are physical things I can never let go of, memories that are a part of my soul.
Being a parent is an awesome responsibility, the most powerful position you can hold.
It deserves to be handled delicately and with pure love.